


Lugent

by Jack (BaraFrance)



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaraFrance/pseuds/Jack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lugent: weeping; mourning.</p>
<p>A word-prompt fic, with the only ship that has ever actually mattered to me</p>
<p>Spy is Rene, Scout is Jack, and I am sorry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lugent

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted to tumblr @ onwednesdayswewritefics.tumblr.com

The day was warm and sunny. It was unfair, really. He’d always thought the weather was supposed to be bleak for these sorts of things, or at least cold and uncomfortable, especially in this horrible little city.

Oh, how she loved it, though. He couldn’t find it in him to hate Boston, with all the memories it held.

The war had ended years ago, and Rene had aged. He managed to drop off the map fairly well, able to finally choose a new name for himself and stop wearing the mask, though he never felt quite safe enough to settle down in one place. Still, travelling through Europe as Rene, retired chef with more money than he knows what to do with, is still preferable to sneaking around through his golden years.

He can’t help but snort at that thought. “Golden years.” He wasn’t that old, yet. Not his fault he’d been able to retire so early.

But—the horrible little city of Boston. He found himself in a mediocre hotel outside the city, adjusting his appearance in a full-length mirror behind the door. A three-piece suit, like those he usually wore, but this one was different; no pinstripes, no red colour scheme. The vest was grey, the jacket and pants a jet black, along with the tie he was straightening. 

If you couldn’t tell that he was in town for a funeral from his dark attire, one could probably guess as much from the rings under his eyes or the slight slump of his shoulders. Leaning closer to the mirror, he inspected his own face. He’d never much liked it, despite the jeers of arrogance he liked to sprinkle into his speech. His cheekbones were much too sharp, nose much too pronounced, hair graying prematurely around his temples and, even worse, down the middle. He looked like a skunk.

Well. The best looking skunk he could be, he supposed, affirming that his hair was brushed back properly before adjusting his cuff links and finally leaving the shoddy room behind him. At least he was well dressed.

It took him a few minutes to hail a cab, and he found himself grateful for the lasting habit of wearing gloves wherever he went after noticing the filth on the door’s handle. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket before reading the address to the cab driver.

"Twenty-third street south, if you will."

*

The funeral home was… small. He wasn’t sure what he expected, for it being in the middle of a city, but—well, city people deserved decent funeral services too, didn’t they? Whatever. This was the city she loved, this was the only place for a service like this.

Busy, too. Not in that a lot of people had died, but a lot of people came to mourn much like he had. Well—not quite like he had. But as best they could.

She had eight sons, but not all eight of them were there. One had died in war, she’d told him. One of them moved away to live too far to visit, but he had come back for her funeral, it seemed. Rene couldn’t say he was surprised, but he hadn’t been expecting it, for some reason. He supposed at least some of her adoptive children should have picked up some good qualities from her.

"Who the fuck invited you?" came a quiet mumble next to his elbow, lacking the usual fury he had come to expect from the wiry Bostonian. "You don’t even have an address."

"I have my ways." Rene adjusted his sleeves, looking down his nose at the boy. He had aged since the war had ended, too, but he still always looked like a kid, full of vigor and—well, usually where Rene was involved, irritation and goading, but he wouldn’t want the boy any other way. Now, though, he just looked tired. Sunken eyes, tired posture, no complaints about the suit he was wearing…

It had been so long since his own mother had died, and she hadn’t been half the woman the Scout’s mother was. He had plenty of right to mourn for as long as he needed, and Rene spared him the usual scathing insults.

"I’m sorry, Scout."

"Go to hell, Spy."

He couldn’t help but smile at that. “Of course. It’s Rene now, by the way.”

The Scout made a quiet noise and shrugged before loping away. Rene sighed. The poor boy. He’d never believed Rene had honestly felt anything for his mother, but that wouldn’t keep him away from the funeral.

He took a few quiet, steadying breaths before approaching the front of the room, where the coffin sat open for the viewing. He’d never imagined he’d be in this situation. Not just that he’d be this attached to someone, but that they would pass before he could…

She was beautiful. She was posed as if meant to be sleeping, but he knew she was much more stunning in her sleep. She would lie in bed with a small smile, a crooked smile, a flush on her cheeks deeper than the artificial coating layered on in make-up, and she would giggle, giggle in that way only she did, and look up at him, and he would smile, a genuine smile, for the first time since—for as long as he could remember. He didn’t mean to get close, it was meant to be a fling to throw off the enemy, but she was so much different than that, she was a force to be reckoned with, a hurricane in a woman, barren mother of eight who corralled toddlers without breaking a sweat, who walked everywhere with a power in her step and a superior air, and no matter who it was, everyone in the room felt it, felt like they should be bending to her will or bowing at her feet, and—

He jumped when a hand laid on his shoulder, and that’s when he realised his cheeks were wet. Looking back, it was the Scout again, now with a hint of genuine shock under his tired sadness. Rene supposed he must have let his memories get the better of him, at the sight of what used to be the one woman who could bring him to his knees.

He wasn’t sure what moved him to do it, but he wrapped his arms around her son’s shoulders, holding him close. Scout hesitated, but eventually leaned into it, head on the older man’s chest.

"I fuckin’ hate you, Spy."

"I know, Scout. I know."

*

That day was, without a single doubt, the most exhausting day Rene could remember having in his entire middle-aged espionage-and-danger-filled life. He joined them to the grave site, staying silent through the whole process but shedding more quiet tears than he thought he ever had before. He couldn’t bring himself to leave when most of the crowd did, the crowd of people whose lives she’d touched and in whose minds she would never disappear. It ended up that he was the last one there, with her seven sons whose names he had stopped pretending to forget.

He noticed them talking among themselves, but honestly, that wasn’t such an odd thing to see among families, even ones who seemed to bicker as much as this one. What was odd, though, was the expression on the Scout’s face when he approached, hand on the back of his neck.

"Look, uh… Rene."

He raised an eyebrow. He’d told the boy his name no less than thirty times, but never once had he used it before.

"Me’n… Me’n the guys were talking, and, uh, well. Ma really thought a lotta you. She… She talked real good about’cha, even during that time when you didn’t come by for a while. And, well… it seems like you really cared about her…"

"I did," Rene answered honestly, eyes roving over the gravestones around them. "She was the only woman I risked it all for, and I would do it all again without hesitation. I just… hope she knows that."

"She seemed to," Scout answered with a shrug. "Anyway, we figured, if Ma loved you that much, well, you can’t be too bad. So you’re welcome around our place any time." He looked embarrassed as he held up a hand, offering something to the Spy.

"Is that—"

"A key to the row house, yeah. We’re not all there all the time, but we go in and out. None of us have it in us to think about sellin’ the place. So, uh, welcome to the family, I guess."

Rene was quiet for a moment, and he tried to ignore the new moisture welling at the corners of his eyes. Shouldn’t there be a limit to how much weakness one body can leak out in one day? “Scout, I—”

"Hey. It’s Jack."

This time he was conscious of the decision to hug the boy tightly, nearly lifting him off the ground. He also consciously ignored the quiet grunt of “S-Spy, Jesus Christ, get off, you’re killin’ me here—”


End file.
